Page 31 of The Assist
Mum: Can you call when you have a moment? Your dad had another episode. We’re waiting on more tests, but I think it’s time we talk properly. Love you.
I sit up fast, the breath catching in my throat.Another episode. Another vague, clinical way of sayingsomething’s wrong.
I reread the message twice, as if the wording mightchange. Hoping “episode” might become “nothing” and “more tests” might transform into “false alarm.” But it doesn’t. It just stares back at me, quiet and final.
I don’t call right away. Instead, I press the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Just for a second. But instead of calm, I’m met with memories of last night.
The pub. The laughter. The look in Dylan’s eyes when he said I made it feel like more than just a job. The heat of his leg brushing against mine and the fact that neither of us moved. Not for the entire hour we sat there, half-listening to Murphy’s ridiculous stories and pretending like we weren’t acutely aware of every inch of contact between us.
I don’t know what it means, and I hate that I’m even trying to figure it out. Because I’m supposed to be smarter than this. I’ve built my career on being the voice of reason in rooms full of adrenaline and ego. I don’t let my heart make decisions for me. And yet, here I am. Fully clad in doubt, lying in bed and retracing the way he looked at me like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe he already had.
My phone buzzes again. I expect it to be Mum.
It’s not.
Dylan: Morning, Clarke. You sleep okay?
I stare at it for longer than I should. He doesn’t do morning texts. Or he didn’t. Our messages, when they happened, used to orbit the schedule; rehab reminders, check-ins, injury updates. The last couple of weeks, they’ve shifted. This one is different.
I type out three different responses before settling on something that feels safe.
Mia: Decently. You?
The three dots pop up almost immediately, dancing along the bottom of my phone screen excitedly.
Dylan: Didn’t sleep much. Brain wouldn’t shut off.
Mia: Too much adrenaline from the game?
There’s another pause before another message lands on my screen.
Dylan: Something like that.
I drop the phone on my duvet and let my head fall back onto the pillow. He’s doing that thing again. Letting me see just enough to wonder what’s beneath. Not flirting, not really. Raw around the edges, like there’s more to him than the Diesel persona and he’s trying to offer it in pieces, hoping I’ll take them.
And I want to. God, I do, but it’s terrifying. Because if I start taking the little pieces of him on offer, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And right now, there’s already too much I can’t control.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot and still wrapped in the too-soft hoodie I wear when I need to feel like the world’s a little smaller. My coffee machine groans to life, filling the silence with something warm and familiar.
I scroll through my messages again while it brews. Mum’s still marked unread, even though I’ve already read it. I just haven’t decided what to do with it yet. She’s been hinting for a while now that something’s wrong with Dad.
Forgetfulness. Confusion. Things that, on their own, didn’t seem like much. But together, they paint a picture Idon’t want to look at too closely. A man who used to be decisive. Difficult but brilliant in his own abrasive way.
Now he forgets where he’s put his keys. Sometimes, Mum says, he forgets what day it is. They thought it was stress. Then age. But the episodes are getting worse. I clutch my coffee mug a little tighter. I should call her. I should’ve called yesterday. Or the day before. But something keeps stopping me. Some part of me that still wants to pretend that everything’s fine. That if I don’t look too hard, the pieces won’t fall apart.
My phone buzzes again with yet another text from Dylan.
Dylan: I keep thinking about last night.
Just that. Six words. But they land in the centre of my chest like a stone in a still lake. I don’t know how to answer. So, I don’t, not yet. Instead, I sit at the kitchen table, phone face-down, and try to find focus in the swirl of caffeine and nerves. I open my laptop, and bring up my schedule. Admin tasks. Rehab notes. Ankle strengthening routines for two of the younger guys. I start typing, hoping that muscle memory will take over. But it’s no use. My fingers freeze halfway through Jacko’s file, still remembering how Dylan looked at me across the booth. Like he was scared. Like he wanted to say,I don’t know how to stop trying to be enough.
God, I get that. I’ve spent years doing the same. Just in different clothes. Trying to be the best. To be essential and somehow irreplaceable, because I learned early on that sometimes, when people don’t know what to do with their own mess, they project it onto you. Dad did that. Made me feel like being strong meant being quiet and efficient. But now I don’t know if that version of me is going to survive what’s coming. And I’m not sure I want her to.
I pick up my phone again. This time, I hit the call button. Mum answers on the second ring. “Mia. Hi, love.”
Her voice is already thick with exhaustion, the kind that lingers at the end of sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions.
“I got your text,” I say quietly.
